


Picture-Perfect Christmas

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: (((*****BRIDGET JONES'S BABY SPOILERS!*****))): the story behind the picture at the end of the closing credits for "Bridget Jones's Baby," because why not, and when was the last time you saw Mark smile like that? Primarily film universe, though the squiffy Christmas tree fiasco reference is book universe. (As always, typos are mine).





	

  


Saturday 3 December

  


9.00 AM

  
Hurrah! Finally Christmas time, and feeling quite cheerful about it all this year actually; v much looking forward to celebrating festive season with Mark and Billy like picture-perfect, greeting card family (hmm, hope not turning into smug family, though still think have right to be just slightly smug because, well, it’s about bloody time). This year am determined to approach holiday as calm, poised wife and mother; will not, for instance, leave off doing all Christmas shopping until last possible moment, but will instead draw up detailed list with names of all individuals in self’s life for whom must purchase gifts, with concrete ideas for said gifts in manner of efficient, obsessive-compulsive Mrs Clause or similar. Luckily, and somewhat surprisingly, have got part of Mark’s gift planned already, though still working out how best to present it. It’s not much of a surprise, really, because it’s something we’ve talked about and I’m sure he wants, but I don’t think he expected it quite so soon.  
I just want everything to be perfect, but know shouldn’t put so much pressure on self to make Christmas perfect for Mark and Billy, because if I’ve learned one thing from this past year, it’s that I’m perfectly comfortable and happy with who I am, just as I am, and I never have to worry about proving myself to anyone, especially my husband or my son, who will always love me. Besides, this year will be nothing like previous Christmases when spent entire evenings alone in flat in old cardigan with egg on, slurping wine and binge-eating Advent calendar chocolates and feeling horribly, miserably alone because had no boyfriend and was convinced was utterly hopeless and unlovable. Now have Mark to face it all with—the decorating, the shopping, and Una and Geoffrey Alconbury’s turkey curry buffet. In fact, think it will all be great fun now that Geoffrey can’t come harrumphing up to me bellowing about how I still haven’t got a chap. Will have lovely, lovely Mark beside me, and we’ll frolic amongst the holiday revelers, hand in hand. Not sure have ever seen Mark Darcy frolic though. Perhaps am getting a bit carried away with self.

Today Mark and I are taking Billy to pick out a Christmas tree, and we’re going to decorate it and snuggle by the fire and drink hot chocolate like warm, cozy, loving family. Mmm, whole concept of Christmas suddenly not so unbearable now that am not miserable barren spinster. Should probably go and get Billy ready—oops, hear Mark calling.

9.15 AM

  
Looked up to find Mark standing in the bedroom doorway, Billy balanced on one hip, my mobile (which am always leaving absent-mindedly about the house for Mark to find) held toward me in his free hand.  
“It’s your mother,” he whispered, the barest ripple of amusement passing across his face. Really hate that he can be so calm and poised and sensible around my mother when talking to her fills me with an overwhelming urge to bang my head repeatedly against something hard. Glanced from Mark, to the phone in his hand, to Billy, who seemed to have decided that wearing most of his breakfast was preferable to eating it. “Never mind the baby,” said Mark, following my gaze.  
“But look at him!” I hissed.  
“I’ll get him cleaned up; you talk to your mother.”  
“but Mark--”  
“Bridget, talk to your mother.” Sighing, I took the phone from him. Honestly, is not as if I hate Mum or anything; it’s just that she always seems to call for the express purpose of reminding me what a disappointment I am. I’d hoped, really, that once I gave her a grandchild and married Mark Darcy, she’d have let up on me a bit, but suppose I should just let her have this; I mean, she’s in the winter of her years. What else has she got to live for, especially now she can’t pester me about finding a husband and settling down like a respectable woman?  
“Mum, hi,” I said as Mark offered me an encouraging smile and slipped from the room.  
“Hello, darling. I’m just calling to find out--”  
“Mum, Mark and I are coming with Billy on Christmas Eve, just like I told you last week, and the week before that, and during that conversation we had about it in the middle of August.”  
“Don’t interrupt, Bridget. It’s impolite, and for your information, I wasn’t going to ask about Christmas at all. Well, I was, but not about that, precisely.” I sighed, anticipating her next words and mentally bracing myself. “I wanted to find out when you plan to send out your Christmas cards. You know it’s Billy’s first Christmas and--”  
“Mum, Billy’s nearly 2; he’s already had his first Christmas.”  
“Oh, don’t be silly darling, you know what I mean; it’s his first real Christmas with his mummy and daddy.” Grrr! Is not as if Mark and I weren’t together last Christmas, even if we did wait a year to get married (understandable really, if you consider our history, and besides, so much happened so fast; I just wanted a bit of time to breathe and get used to being a mum, and just enjoy having Billy in my life and Mark back in my life). Still, for all Mum’s claims of embracing this century and becoming more progressive and open-minded, she still behaves as if everything in my life before I married Mark didn’t count—like actually giving birth to my son was just a bloody warmup act, and none of it really mattered until I gave him a proper father and a proper family. At the time, think Mum was just so relieved that Mark turned out to be Billy’s father that she seemed perfectly willing to overlook certain minor details—like that I slept with two men in the space of a single week and Mark was in the middle of a divorce and I’d only met Jack once… and he was American (imagine!) Really, sort of thing that could happen to anyone; besides, if it hadn’t all happened the way it did, completely randomly and organically (in more ways than one, re: environmentally-conscious contraception), I might not have Billy, and maybe Mark and I wouldn’t have found each other again. Mmm, love the lovely dolphin condoms.  
After Billy was born and Mark and I got engaged (again), obvs there just wasn’t enough room in my flat, but just when I started panicking about house-hunting and wedding-planning and getting back down to pre-baby weight so could squeeze self into a dress, Mark, once again, came to the rescue with magically simple solution. He took charge of everything with his micro-managing, military-style efficiency and got us all moved into his big, white, stainless-steel, wedding-cake-style mansion that, for reasons he never fully explained, he hadn’t bothered to sell after he married Camilla even though they never lived there. He made some off-hand, practical, typical Mark Darcy excuse about it not being a good time to sell when I asked him about it, though have always suspected that wasn’t the whole truth—something about the soft, wistful, sad Labrador puppy-eyed look he gave me when he said it. Anyway, after we were settled, and Mum made me promise I wouldn’t get pregnant again until I was properly married, I thought she’d let the matter drop. Think it’s v hypocritical of Mum when I think about Christmas when I was pregnant with Billy and she went on and on about how proud she was of me and how Billy was going to have the love of two fathers; suddenly when Mark appeared on the scene again like knight in shining armor to save her fallen woman daughter, none of that mattered any longer.  
“And you can put in a lovely family photo,” Mum was saying now, pulling me out of my musing. Honestly, do people even send out Christmas cards anymore? Maybe will just send out one of those lovely Christmas round robin emails to everyone and can even include a picture, if I can talk Mark into it and Billy will sit still for five minutes. Can dress Billy up in little baby Santa suit, and Mark can—  
“Bridget!”  
“Oh, sorry, Mum, what?”  
“Don’t say ‘what,’ Bridget. Say ‘pardon,’ but really, darling, you must do something. Julie Enderby--”  
“Mum,” I snapped, “I don’t care what Julie Enderby or anyone else does! Just once, can’t you stop comparing me to everyone else’s daughter and be happy with the one you’ve got?”  
“Oh, well…” Long pause followed in which heard Mum sniffling. Felt suddenly guilty for flying out at her like that, but how could I help it when she’s so bloody maddening? “I didn’t mean—you know I am very proud of you, Bridget; very proud. I just thought it might be nice.”  
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Mum, really, and I’ll think about it. I promise.”  
Managed somehow to end the conversation pleasantly, but the moment I put down the phone, I dropped onto the bed and buried my face in my hands.  
“Bridget? What’s the matter? Is everything all right?”  
“I’ve just got off the phone with my mother,” I mumbled. “What do you think?” Heard Mark cross the room and sit down beside me, and felt Billy’s soft, dimpled fingers creep into mine. Started to sniffle and hurriedly brushed the back of my hand across my eyes. Really need to maintain composure and not go around weeping like a leaky hosepipe, or Mark might think something’s terribly wrong with me when it’s only—fuck! It’ll all be so much easier when I just tell him; bloody hormones.  
“Bridget,” Mark whispered, slipping an arm around my waist.  
“Darling, look at me.” He cupped my cheek in his hand, turning my face toward him. “You can’t work yourself up like this every time your mother does or says something that gets under your skin.”  
“I’ll be fine,” I sniffed. Mark reached across to the bedside table and handed me a tissue; love Mark. Even when my tendency to overreact frustrates him, he eventually realizes that I need to just get it all out. Just as I’d started to compose myself, the phone rang again; bloody Mum.  
“Shit!” I snapped even as, without a word, Mark calmly took the phone from me, glanced at it, and slipped it into his own pocket after silencing the call.  
“Fuck!” Billy chirped happily.  
Mark frowned. “Billy,” he said sternly. “That’s no way for a gentleman to talk, and besides,” he added, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile, “no cursing in front of your mother. It only encourages her.” I giggled; then glancing at Billy, I noticed for the first time that Mark had dressed him in his little green jumper with the reindeer on, identical to the one Mark had been wearing when our mums tried to fix us up at the turkey curry buffet fifteen years ago. Elaine had given it to Billy and had even got one for me. I shifted my gaze to Mark, who’d apparently decided to be a good sport and wear his as well.  
“Well, I guess I know what I’m putting on today,” I said, laughing in spite of myself.  
“There, that’s better,” said Mark, squeezing my shoulder. “Now, what’s your mother done this time? I heard you shouting at her about something.”  
“You know Mum,” I sighed. Related whole conversation to him and how I’d finally lost my temper. “She just says the most tactless and hurtful things sometimes; I know she doesn’t mean it, but that doesn’t stop it making me feel like a miserable failure.”  
Mark slid an arm around me again and drew me close, pulling my head to his shoulder. “Bridget, you’re not a failure.”  
“Well,” I demanded, “then why can’t Mum just let me alone?”  
“I know it’s hard, my love,” he murmured, “but your mother loves you very, very much; I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. She’s just--”  
“Mad,” I suggested.  
“Well, no, I wouldn’t put it precisely like that,” Mark replied delicately. “She’s just got a very fixed idea about things in her mind. Most of us have, really, if you think about it. We think ourselves so forward-thinking and progressive and our parents’ generation are so rigid and set in their ways, and maybe that’s true, but it all comes full circle eventually, and in 30 years Billy will probably be thinking the same thing about us.”  
“God, I hope not,” I protested.  
Mark kissed the top of my head. “My point, darling, is that your mother isn’t really going to change, not now. You don’t have to agree with her; you just have to understand that she’s looking at the world from a different perspective.”  
“But--”  
“Sh.” Mark laid a finger over my lips. “That’s enough. Deep breaths; calm, calm, lovely calm.”  
Couldn’t decide whether wanted to slap him or kiss him, so just settled for leaning my head against his shoulder. “You’re right, I suppose.” Sat there for a few minutes, warm and comfortable in the circle of Mark’s arm until Billy broke into my thoughts.  
“Mummy?”  
“What is it, darling?” For answer, Billy simply held his arms out, and I smiled as I lifted him onto my lap. It amazes me sometimes how much he’s like Mark; he just sits quietly and observes, taking everything in, and he always knows just what I need.  
“thank you, Billy,” I whispered, kissing the top of his head as he wrapped his arms around my neck. “Mummy needed a hug.”  
“Wuv you,” said Billy, pressing his little cheek against mine.  
“And I love you, my darling.” Then with a deep breath, I turned back to Mark. “So, what are we going to do about this Christmas card problem?” Billy snuggled into the crook of my arm and rested his head against my shoulder, and a warm glow lit Mark’s eyes as he gazed down at the pair of us; finally he smiled.  
“I think I have a plan.” 

10.00 PM

  
We decided to visit Borough Market, where laughter and chatter mingled with the raised voices of carolers enveloped us like a warm blanket, and I put my conversation with Mum completely out of my head as I sipped hot cider, giggling with Mark at Billy’s attempts to catch the occasional snow flurry in his little fists.  
“I love being back here at Christmas time,” I said, nibbling a bite of gingerbread. “But what does this have to do with your plan?”  
“Patience, darling,” said Mark. “You’ll see soon enough. I’m just trying to work out precisely—aha!” He smiled.  
“What?” I demanded curiously.  
“Look, Bridget. Look who it is.”  
I glanced several stalls down in the direction he indicated and drew in a breath. “Mr Ramdas!”  
Hearing my exclamation, he turned, spotted me, and with a broad smile, wove his way through the throng to meet us. “Bridget! So good to see you, sweetheart,” he said, taking both of my hands in his and kissing my cheek.  
“And you. It’s been such a long time.”  
“Your wedding, I think,” replied Mr Ramdas before turning to Mark. “You’re taking good care of her, I hope, and this sturdy little man,” he added, inclining his head toward Billy.  
With Billy nestled in the crook of one arm, Mark wound the other around my waist. “I’ve not heard any complaints thus far,” he said.  
Mr Ramdas beamed at the three of us. “No, I would think not. You all look very well, and very happy—just like a Christmas card.”  
A sudden gleam came into Mark’s eye. “Actually, Mr Ramdas, I’ve had an idea, and I wonder—perhaps you can help us.”  
“Oh, of course! Of course!” Mr Ramdas’s smile broadened. “Just tell me, what is it you would like me to do?”

Mark is really the sweetest, dearest, cleverest husband; is magic, really, how he can just take one quick, efficient glance at my problems, assess the situation, and present me with calm, rational solution in manner of crisis negotiator. Seems v ridiculous now that got self so worked up about a silly Christmas card; whole thing turned out perfectly lovely, actually. Mark got this brilliant idea that since we were all festively turned out in our matching jumpers and the market was all decorated for Christmas, it would make a perfect picture for our Christmas cards. It was perfect, really, like being caught in gigantic snow globe tableau or similar, with people milling about and carts of apples and wine and snowflakes swirling around us. Mark and I set Billy between us and crouched down on either side of him, holding his little hands and wrapping our arms around him while Mr Ramdas bobbed about with my phone, snapping away and calling out, “Smile! Yes! Yes! Very nice!” Glanced over at Mark; his grin was even wider than Billy’s, and the pride and joy in his family that shone in his eyes made self feel all warm and soft inside as if full of marshmallows.  
“What a lovely idea,” I said as Mark extended a hand to help me to my feet, and on the pretense of brushing a fleck of snow from my cheek, he bent his head and kissed me, full on the mouth, right there in the middle of the market, with people pausing to watch. “Oh,” I murmured, a bit breathless. “well, Mr Darcy, you astonish me.”  
Mark chuckled. “I have my moments.”

We lingered for a few more minutes with Mr Ramdas before thanking him for his help and heading off; when we parted, Mr Ramdas took both of my hands in his again, kissed my cheek, and pulled me into a warm hug.  
“You’ll do all right, sweetheart,” he murmured, adding with a wink, “Good luck, crazy girl.”

The process of selecting a Christmas tree, as it turned out, was v enlightening in that I learned that one of the many perks of having a son is his unwitting role as tie-breaker in marital disputes. I wanted a pine; Mark preferred a fir (more expensive but less messy). In the midst of Mark’s impromptu mini-botany lecture, Billy settled the matter by pointing to the largest tree he could find.

Came home and warmed ourselves with mugs of hot chocolate before we set about decorating.  
“You know,” said Mark, pausing in the act of untangling a string of lights to smile at me, “I was just remembering the first time we decorated a tree together.”  
“Oh god!” I giggled, thinking of how I’d almost burned my flat down when the tree wound up in the fire because it was too big, so I got squiffy and got out a pair of scissors, and by the time Mark came round, it didn’t look like it had ever resembled a tree. “I swore to myself I’d never drink again after that.”  
Mark chuckled. “yes, and how did that turn out?” Billy was toddling around the tree, catching and examining its lower branches in his little hands until the sound of Mark’s laughter caught his attention, and he trotted over to investigate the source of the amusement. “Billy,” said Mark, scooping his son into a hug and kissing the top of his head, “promise me one thing.” Billy blinked up at him. “Marry someone who makes you laugh.” Billy continued to stare up at his father, and for a moment, his eyes held that same dark, serious look Mark gets when he’s trying to say something important but can’t quite find the right words. He raised his two index fingers to his lips as if he were thinking deep thoughts; then he smiled as if he understood every word Mark had said.  
“Your father knows what he’s talking about, and,” I added, tickling Billy behind the ear and making him giggle, “if it hadn’t been for you, who knows where we’d be. He might not have married me at all.” A flicker of something like pain flashed in Mark’s eyes, but he slid one arm around me and pulled me to him. Just stood there for several minutes, snuggled against Mark’s side, watching the lights on the Christmas tree dance in my little boy’s eyes, and suddenly found self blinking back tears again. In that moment, everything we’d gone through—the hurt feelings, the harsh words, all those wrong turns over the years where Mark and I kept missing each other somehow—just seemed like part of the journey that brought us here. Given the chance to do it all over, I suppose I might have done things differently, and maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here with Mark now, or maybe I still would; maybe we’d already have years of happy Christmases behind us, or maybe we’d never have got married and Mark would have stayed married to Camilla, and I’d have wound up with Jack, or someone else, or just Sharon and Jude and Tom and Miranda, my cozy little urban family. That’s just it though; we never know how things might have turned out, only how they do. I don’t know what my life might look like now if I’d made different choices, but I know that whatever our differences, Mark and I love each other, and we love Billy, and I’m here with them now, and this is where I belong, loving what is instead of longing for what might’ve been.  
“It’s going to be a good Christmas,” murmured Mark, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand.

Eventually when Billy’s eyes became heavy with the day’s excitement and all he’d seen, I scooped him up and carried him off to bed; came back downstairs thinking I might settle in and attempt the dreaded Christmas cards to find Mark sitting quietly, his chin in his hands, staring at the tree in deep thought. He’d lit a fire, and the logs filled the room with a cheerful crackling.  
“Hi,” I said, snuggling up next to him and wrapping my arms around him.  
He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to my temple. “Hi.”  
“Something wrong?” I asked, pulling back to examine his face.  
“Nothing in particular.” Thing about Mark is that however terrible he is at verbalizing his emotions, he can’t lie about them either; I only have to look in his eyes if I want to get the truth out of him.  
“You’re a bad liar, Mark.”  
He sighed. “I was just thinking about what you said earlier, about how things might have turned out differently for us. Maybe it’s just Christmas making me overly sentimental, but I can’t help feeling, at times like this, as if I have so much to make up for—so many years we can’t get back because I never paused to notice they were slipping away.” Felt tiny stab of guilt at his words; as much as Mark has become a bit more relaxed since we got back together, at his core, he’s still v serious, and I forget sometimes that underneath that stiff upper-lip façade is this tender little boy who takes everything to heart.  
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “I was joking.”  
“I know,” said Mark. “But you weren’t wrong.” He traced his thumb across the back of my hand as he spoke. “It took me longer than it should have to realize how much I took you for granted. If our paths hadn’t crossed the way they did, I wonder what might have happened. It still seems so incredible to me sometimes, when I think of how I lost you once, through nothing more than my own foolishness, that fate could be kind enough to give me another chance.”  
“It’s strange,” I said, “how time just seemed to be waiting for us to catch up; all those years we spent running in pointless circles, trying so hard to keep everything together and just watching it all fall apart, and then, when we just sort of let fate flow in its own direction, it all fell into place. Even the house seemed to be waiting for us. I always thought it was odd that you never sold this place. I’d have thought you’d want to be rid of it—rid of the memories.”  
“The time to sell just wasn’t right,” Mark said dryly, “and then, I just never got around to it; work got in the way, and life--”  
“And you just couldn’t let go of it,” I murmured, squeezing his hand as I felt tears prickling in the corners of my eyes again.  
“No,” Mark agreed. “I suppose I couldn’t, but I couldn’t stay here—not with Camilla, not after—well, it just didn’t feel right; living here, trying to make a life here with anyone else.”  
“Didn’t Camilla think that was odd, you not wanting to sell the house, I mean?” I asked, glad to have a chance to talk about her; Mark rarely does, and excavating that part of his life has been a bit slow going.  
He shrugged. “If she did, she never let on; I think somehow she knew, and she understood. That was—well, it was one of the things I always liked about her. When I first started to get to know her, I just thought it was a merciful reprieve to be spending time with someone who didn’t ask probing questions. Life had knocked her about quite a bit, I think, and she’d experienced a lot of the same pain I had—broken trust, failed relationships, the sorts of trials that most of us go through, really, at one time or another, except that some of us--” he paused, brushing his fingertips across my cheek, “some of us are just better than others at brushing ourselves off and moving on. Anyway, Camilla never really pried, and gradually I realized that she never asked questions because she never needed to. She was--” he hesitated. “In her own way, she wasn’t so different than you in that respect. She understood me, and in understanding, she never asked me to be anything other than what I was or demanded of me more than I could give, even if she wanted to at times. We were never really in love with one another, but we had a mutual respect for each other that gradually deepened into something resembling affection, and she deserved a better companion than I could have been.”  
“You know,” I said, “I’ve always sort of wanted to thank her.”  
Mark arched a brow. “What on earth for?”  
“Just—just for being kind to you. I know how hard it must have been for you after, you know—after we ended things, and I know you probably spent every day mentally pummeling yourself for it. Someone needed to be kind to you if you couldn’t be kind to yourself, and it seems like Camilla was, or at least she tried to be.”  
Mark nodded. “She was, in her own way. Plenty of people thought she was rather cold; my mother couldn’t stand the sight of her, though she took care never to show it,” he added with a half-smile. “When I met Camilla, neither of us thought we wanted anything more than company, someone to just drift through life with so we wouldn’t have to face it alone, and for a while it seemed to work, but I wasn’t being fair to her. She was kind, and perhaps more patient than I deserved, and when I realized finally that it just wasn’t working for her, the kindest thing I could do was let her go. In a way, she’d always been really alone.” I winced; his words reminded me of the letter I’d left him the morning after the Christening. I still ache thinking of it sometimes—how much those words must have haunted him.  
“Oh, Mark.” I slid onto his lap and rested my head on his shoulder, rubbing my cheek against the sleeve of his jumper and reveling in its soft, worn wool against my skin. “I know how you feel,” I said. “I’d be lying if I told you I don’t ever think about the past or feel guilty about it, but honestly, I don’t think any of that matters now.” Mark didn’t reply; just cradled me against him and rested his chin on the top of my head. “I’ve learned a lot about myself this last year or two,” I continued, “and about how sometimes the universe knows when we’re ready for things better than we do. We both made certain choices, and right or wrong, those choices brought us here.”  
“You’re right,” Mark agreed, tilting my head up to kiss me. “I don’t know why I brought it up; we’ve been over all of this before.”  
“It was my fault,” I replied. “Because of what I said; I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be,” he murmured, stroking my cheek. “You’ve made me realize how foolish I’ve been. It’s just--” he swallowed, averted his eyes, then went on, “I want to give you everything, Bridget; you deserve everything I can give you, and more, for everything I should have given you before.” I reached up to cradle his face in my hands.  
“Mark, look at me.” He did; a single tear slid down his cheek, and I brushed it away with the pad of my thumb. “You can’t go through life looking behind you; that’s how you wind up missing what’s right in front of you.” The firelight reflected in his eyes somehow intensified that deep, brooding expression, and all at once I knew just how to cheer him up.  
“Mark?”  
“hmm?”  
“Speaking of giving things, I think I’ve got something to cheer you up,” I said. “An early Christmas present, sort of.”  
“Really?” Mark considered me skeptically. “Early?”  
“Well,” I said carefully, “it… needed time to get here.”  
“Still, I’m impressed. A Christmas miracle, indeed. Where, pray tell, have you been hiding this early present?”  
“You’ll never guess.” Smiling up at him, I took his hand in mine and placed it against my stomach; am not really showing yet, obvs, but felt a little flutter of excitement as Mark’s eyes went wide with comprehension. He stared at me; then down at his hand; then back up at me.  
“Bridget,” he whispered. “You mean—you’re not—are you?” I nodded. “Really?”  
“Yes.”  
“You’re certain?”  
“As certain as I can be,” I said, squeezing his hand.  
“I wondered,” he murmured. “Today—lately, you’ve been rather…”  
“Crazy?” I suggested.  
“Emotional,” he supplied tactfully.  
“How far along?”  
“I’m not sure yet; not long. We’ll know for certain when I’ve seen the doctor.” Then added with a giggle, “why? Do you want to treasure the date?”  
“I want to treasure everything,” whispered Mark, kissing my forehead.  
“At least we’ll be better prepared this time,” I said.  
He smiled. “Yes. Just promise me you won’t lock yourself out of the house before your waters break this time.”  
I laughed. “I will, if you promise not to chuck your phone out the window.”  
“Yes, I think we can agree that was both the most frightfully gallant and the most frightfully stupid thing I’ve ever done.” Taking both of my hands in his, Mark raised them to his lips and kissed them. “What a wonderful gift. Thank you, my love.”  
“Give yourself a bit of credit,” I laughed, leaning in to peck his cheek.  
“I know we’ve been planning for it, but still, I can’t quite—it’s so--” His voice broke, his arms went around me, and he just held me tightly to his chest.  
“I know,” I whispered, feeling all of the unsaid words caught in his throat that he tried to transmit into his hug. We sat together for a while, savoring the moment, until I gently disentangled myself.  
“Right. Christmas cards,” I said bracingly, reaching for one. “How’s this? ‘Dear Mum, I know we’ve had our differences, but now it’s Christmas I feel we should set all of our misunderstandings aside and just be thankful for each other. I feel very close to you now, both as a woman and as your daughter.”  
“Oh, Bridget.” Mark lowered his head into his hands and began to laugh; then enfolded me in his arms again and kissed me. “How I love you.”  
“And I love you,” I said. “so very, very much.”  
Funny, really, how in stories and movies marriage is seen as the happy ending when actually the story has only just begun. How does the saying go? “The past is just prologue”? So now Mark and I are opening yet another chapter in our life; I don’t know how many more we’ll write together, but I do know that whatever happens, everything is meant to be, just as it is.

The End


End file.
